


Pity the Living

by ElectraCute



Series: Stars & Daffodils [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Family Drama, Family Reunions, Forgiveness, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, graveyard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-23 16:19:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14937728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElectraCute/pseuds/ElectraCute
Summary: After the war, the two last descendants of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black find themselves mourning in the same graveyard. (Oneshot)





	Pity the Living

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, this is a part of "Stars & Daffodils", my oneshot series which follows the three Black sisters in my personal headcanon timeline. If you like this one, make sure to check out the rest of them - they all include references to each other ;)

The fallen heroes of the Battle of Hogwarts have been buried on the grounds.

It is only proper. The small graveyard has been put up between the Great Lake and the Forbidden Forest. There is nothing special about it; just plain tombstones with names carved on them. Soon enough, however, the graves are being covered in flowers, photographs, notes… The sight is, at the same time, heartbreaking and inspiring, haunting and hopeful. Those men and women have lost their lives, yes, but this was for the hope of a better future.

There is one grave that stands out among the others. There are barely any flowers on it, or photographs, or notes. Sure, most visitors stop at it when passing by, sighing deeply, exchanging a few words… But not caring enough, perhaps. Or maybe, being too afraid to care.

Still, even this grave receives one regular visitor; a tall, blond woman. She is occasionally accompanied by a man; sometimes a younger one, sometimes an older one. But she mostly comes alone. And she always brings the fallen hero the same present; a bouquet of daffodils. She sits by the tombstone in silence, looking past it, her eyes lost in ghosts and shadows of the war. Every now and then, a tear streams down her cheek, and she quickly sweeps it with the back of her hand; this woman has been taught to never show the world her vulnerability.

She is visiting the grave again today. The old, withered daffodils vanish under her wand and her hands lovingly replace them with new ones.

All of a sudden, something shifts her focus. Another woman has just entered the graveyard. She is wearing a hooded traveling cloak, under which one can see some dark curls and a pale, tired face. She makes her way to another grave, one that has received lots of offerings lately, including a couple of Hufflepuff scarves.

The dark-haired woman kneels beside the grave and buries her face in her hands, sobbing quietly. She takes one of the scarves and holds it tenderly, her eyes glazed as she reminisces in something that had once been. Her hand reaches inside the bag she is carrying and pulls out a big bouquet of bright pink daisies, which she gently lays in front of the tombstone. There are some photographs on it too, and if one looks closely, they can see a young woman with bright pink hair - the same shade as the daisies - smiling in all of them.

The blond woman is startled. She pretends to be oblivious to the presence of another person in the graveyard, and yet keeps shifting uncomfortably, betraying an inner turmoil. Eventually, she takes a deep breath in and reluctantly approaches the newcomer. Her steps are slow and unsure, but she maintains her regal poise. She finally reaches her, and hovers for a moment before deciding to speak.

“Andromeda?” Her voice cracks slightly, as if she hasn’t pronounced that name in years and still needs some practice.

The woman named Andromeda doesn’t turn her head. She remains at the exact same position, not even twitching in acknowledgement of the intruder.

“I knew I saw you over there,” she says coldly, never glancing at the other woman.

“Won’t you… look at me?”

Andromeda doesn’t budge an inch.

“What do you want, Narcissa?”

“To talk to you.”

“Why now? You haven’t talked to me in twenty-eight years.”

“You know that’s not true.”

The other woman finally turns to face her. There is an odd, undetectable resemblance between the two, one that has nothing to do with outward appearances.

“Why didn’t you answer my letters?” says Narcissa.

Andromeda remains silent.

“I went to such lengths to avoid getting caught! All you had to write me was a few words, so that I’d know you were safe! Then I wouldn’t have to scan the Prophet for your name every day!”

Andromeda’s eyes go slightly wider before she manages to conceal her surprise.

“What did you do with them? Throw them away? Burn them?” Narcissa’s voice is almost quivering.

“No. I kept them.”

There is a stunned silence for a few moments.

“You did?”

“Yes. The blanket too. And that photograph, the one of you holding your son. I still have it.”

There is a smile on Narcissa’s face for a second, but then it assumes a bewildered expression.

“Andy… _why_ wouldn’t you write me back?”

The other woman sighs deeply and averts her eyes towards the sky.

“You were the only one I missed,” she admits, and in the soft light of the sunset her eyes seem to glisten for a moment. “My final tie with that hellhole I once called home; my _strongest_ tie. I thought that if I could cut you off, I would be forever liberated.”

“But how could you do that to me? I was still a child when you left! Dammit, Dromeda, I’m your sister!”

“We were sisters in a different life, Narcissa. That was very, very long ago. We have gone our own ways now. I have no sisters anymore.”

Narcissa kneels before her and takes her hand. “Please, don’t say that. We’ve been apart for so long, I know, but I’m here now. The world had to collapse around us before this could happen, but if you want to, you can have a sister again.”

Andromeda’s face twists into a pained expression, and she pulls her hand away from her sister’s grasp.

“This is the cost of having a sister, Narcissa,” she says, showing her the grave of the girl with the pink hair.

“I’m sorry… Andy, I’m sorry.”

“You should be. You never stopped being _her_ sister, did you? You harboured my daughter’s murderer inside your house, and now you’re here trying to enter my life again. You can’t eat your cake and have it, Cissy.”

“I didn’t…”

“What? You didn’t know? You didn’t know she was out to get us? First it was Sirius, and then it would have been me. But she couldn’t get to me, could she? And so she went for my daughter instead… My precious Nymphadora, my only child… _Your_ sister took her away from me.”

Narcissa stands up. “I’m sorry for everything you had to go through, Andy, and for whichever part of it I am responsible for. Believe me, I had no choice.” Her voice breaks a little at that - if only her sister knew how much she means it. By the time she found the courage to fight back, there was only so much she could do.

Andromeda scoffs. “That has always been you, hasn’t it? The girl who had no choice.”

“Listen, I know I have failed you. But I am asking for your forgiveness. And not because I want to clear my own conscience, but because I want to be there for you. You’re raising a baby all on your own. I want to help you.”

She shoots her a defensive glare that betrays hurt pride. “I don’t need your help, Mrs. Malfoy. You can keep your treasures to yourself.”

“That’s not what I mean, Dromeda. If you ever need anything, I want to take care of you.”

“I don’t need to be taken care of.”

“Everyone needs to be taken care of. Please, let me back into your life. Let me be your sister again. Deep down, you know I never stopped caring. Don’t you?”

Andromeda looks her in the eye for the first time, the two identical grey gazes reuniting at last after many years.

“Don’t you, Andromeda?”

In all honesty, she does. Narcissa was simply lucky - until recently, that is. She cannot blame her for her luck, nor for acting on her instinct of self-preservation. The war took its toll on her sister, she can see it; the woman standing before her is no longer the perfect pureblood trophy wife that she often saw in the papers. Tears have furrowed the alabaster skin of her face, and there are clouds in her grey eyes. Her pleading smile is a little broken. She seems to have grown tired of her aristocratic upright posture, which she nevertheless maintains.

And, after all, she did write her those letters back in the day.

“The ability to win people over is a core Slytherin quality, isn’t it?”

A smirk appears on Narcissa’s face. “I suppose it is.”

“I always wondered if the Sorting Hat had made a mistake with me. But it was undoubtedly right about you.”

“Does that mean I have won you over?”

“I need some time, Narcissa. I’m trying to get my life back in order, and I can’t afford to have you bring it upside down now. I will send you an owl when I’m ready.”

Narcissa tries to suppress a triumphant grin. “Do you promise?”

“I promise. No more unanswered letters.” The triumphant grin is now proudly present, looking rather odd on that normally haughty face. “For now though I have to go, I’ve left the child with his godfather and I need to make sure they haven’t burnt the house down in my absence.” She makes a move to leave, only to turn around a moment later. “But I forgot to ask you; what were you doing here? Ambushing me?”

“Oh no, I was visiting someone.”

“You? Who were you visiting?”

Narcissa doesn’t respond and looks away, giving her sister an opportunity to guess. And soon enough, she does.

“Snape.”

The blond woman nods.

“You and Lucius had always liked the kid.”

Narcissa nods again, smiling bitterly. “Nothing’s changed.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Goodbye, Andy.” She takes her sister’s hand and holds it for a moment before letting go.

“Goodbye, Cissy.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you're curious about the letters I'm referring to, there's another work in this series called "Letters to a Fallen Star" and it is just that; young Narcissa's letters to Andromeda.


End file.
